


Permission

by Lochinvar



Series: Amuse-bouche [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Boys In Love, Bunker Fluff, Comfort Food, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Idiots in Love, Impala, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Ragnarok, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Took Dean 20 years to say yes. Sam figures out what he wants.





	Permission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/gifts), [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts).



> Love is about romance and comfort. Sex is gravy.
> 
> In my universe, Baby is sentient, or about to be.
> 
> Own nothing. Depend on the kindness of strangers.
> 
> Just needed some fluff, and I like to share.
> 
> Pretty much ignoring canon plot lines.

Dean said _Yes._ Dean saying _Yes_ was a very big deal.

He said _No_ when Sam was 12. They woke up together in a shabby, room-by-the-hour motel in suburban St. Louis, Missouri.

He told Sam, “Only babies sleep with their older brothers.”

Dean used his meanest voice and punched his little brother as he rolled him over onto the floor. It hurt. Left a bruise.

Took Sam ten years to figure out that Dean was hoping to break the bond between them, hoping that young Sammy would hate him, keep his distance, hoping that he, Dean, would stop feeling guilty about what he was thinking while he watched over his smart, brave, beautiful little brother at night.

Hoping they could escape each other before Dean corrupted the hazel-eyed boy.

After that revelation, took another ten years of Sam’s _propositioning_ Dean to change his brother’s mind.

 _Propositioning,_ ‘cause that’s what it was.

“I love you. I want you. You love me. You want me. Say _Yes_.”

Or words to that effect. Words that had the impact of blunt force trauma.

Sometimes, once a year. Sometimes, every day for a week and twice each and every day.

Dean would say nothing 84.56 percent of the time, shrug 12.43 percent of the time, or blow up at Sam, shove him away, and leave 3.01 percent of the time. Sometimes, flee their motel room, stand on the sidewalk for ten minutes, inhale, and come back as if nothing had happened. Sometimes, disappear with Baby for hours or days.

Once he vanished for two weeks. Ended up at Bobby’s with a fading black eye, a fine pair of new boots, and a roll of cash.

Muttered something about a biker bar in Pennsylvania.

\-----

The tipping point? Yet another catastrophic, _Back-From-The-Dead, Back-From-Hell, Back-From-the-Brink, Save-The-World Series_ (“Again?” as Buffy and her crew would say), and a snowed-in night in the Bunker.

The brothers were celebrating: _They tried to kill us, again. We won, again. Let’s eat and drink, again._

The epic blizzard was the last remnant of the failed Ragnarök that the brothers aborted, as was typical, at the last tick of the Doomsday Clock. Rattled 200 years’ worth of Midwestern climate records. A pack of hurricane-level winds prowled, laying down two inches of snow each hour across Lebanon, Kansas, and the rest of the Heartland, and a baker’s dozen of state law enforcement agencies had closed their major highways.

Baby drowsed in the spacious Bunker garage, occasionally purring and sparking under her hood, dreaming of Colorado mountain switchbacks and Utah salt flat straightaways and Nova Scotia’s Cabot Trail, circling the northern reaches of Cape Breton Island, flying between seascapes and the rise of the Highlands lifting to the sky, pacing pods of pilot whales and convocations of bald eagles.

The Men of Letters had tuned the warded outpost’s immortal steampunk heating system to hold steady at a conservative 72 degrees Fahrenheit, despite outdoor conditions. Nonetheless, the psychic weight of the storm drove the brothers under a shared thick wool army blanket on the memory foam in Dean’s room. It was weeks after the holiday season; however, they were watching Dean’s favorite Christmas movie, _Die Hard,_ on the oversized screen of Sam’s favorite laptop, cocooned side-by-side in the dark, each dressed in his favorite version of cold-weather pajamas.

Dean was not drunk–rarely got tipsy anymore with his Russian-mobster-level tolerance for hard liquor–but he was mellow. Very good bourbon will do that. And, if you looked closely, he was the slightest bit snuggly next to his favorite person. His Sammy, his brother, his boy, the weak chink in his Hunter’s armor.

And Sam had slid, oiled by shots of that very good bourbon, into his _Happy Place,_ his giant brain slow simmering under the influence.

And, at the end of the movie, they smiled at each other, their faces illuminated by the light of the closing credits.

And once again, Sam asked.

“Please, De?”

Sam was tired of resisting the scent of his brother: pumice soap and gun oil and _Buffalo Trace_ and celebratory apple pie.

The heat of Dean’s body anchoring him. A safe harbor.

The rhythms of their breathing and heartbeats merging into one breath. One heart.

Didn’t have to explain to his Dean what he was talking about. Just clicked the “hold” button once again from _off_ to _on,_ starting up mid-stream in a conversation that had lasted a decade.

“Please?”

Dean stared at Sam. Waited. One beat. Two beats. Three beats.

“Yes,” said Dean as if he was being asked if he wanted bacon and pie and black coffee for breakfast. The inevitable answer to an obvious question. As if it were no big deal.

Turned on his side, faced away from his Sammy, and disappeared into an untroubled slumber.

Sam’s last coherent thoughts were _Did Dean Really Say Yes_? and _Will He Remember What He Said Tomorrow?_

\-----

It was mid-morning, and Sam woke up alone, the beginning of a headache surging up behind his eyes. The cursed blizzard had tamped down to overcast and snow flurries. But short of a teleportation spell, they weren’t leaving the Bunker for days.

On a small wooden table on Sam’s side of the bed sat a glass tumbler of tomato juice with a fat slice of fresh lime speared through the top of a long-handled spoon. On a blue saucer lay an old-fashioned pharmacy envelope, stamped with a tiny woodcut image of a chalice and folded around a dose of _Pastor Jim’s Miracle Hangover Cure._ Powdered herbs and a blessing.

Sam smiled as he twisted the lime slice, letting the juice run into the glass; Dean had remembered how to pimp up Sam’s drinks. Made him “Virgin Marys” when he was a kid: tomato juice, a boost of fresh lemon or lime, celery salt, and a dash of Worcestershire and hot sauce. A stalk of celery and a stuffed olive on a toothpick.

Learned the recipe from sympathetic bartenders when Dean had to babysit Sam in taverns while they were part of John’s cover during investigations.

Sam unfolded the origami packet and poured the contents into the juice. It dissolved with a quick stir of the spoon. Drank it down; the potion added a pleasant minty/peppery taste, and immediately the headache abated.

The tumbler–Bohemian hand cut crystal–and the Depression-era blue salt-glazed saucer were from one of several matched sets of dinnerware that the brothers had found in the Bunker’s spacious pantry when they first moved in. (The Men of Letters had taste.) Decided early on they were too good to use for everyday, even though Sam would eye them wistfully on occasion when searching for an overlooked can of peaches or smoked sardines.

Dean must have noticed.

A piece of lined note paper, liberated from the Bunker’s infinite stockpile of circa 1930s office supplies, sat on the edge of the table with a scrawled smiling face and the word _Kitchen_ written in Dean’s precise, cursive handwriting.

Sam cocked his head to listen. In the distance he heard the familiar thump of a classic rock soundtrack and the clatter of pots and pans. Two reliable signs that Dean was happy.

The younger Hunter eased out of bed and headed to the Bunker’s industrial-sized bathroom. Reminded Sam of an upscale high school locker room. Cleaned up. Took his time with his favorite soap and shampoo and conditioner, the expensive department store brand that smelled of musk and balsam. Didn’t shave; knew a little scruff made him looked good.

Like he was getting ready for a big date.

Went back to his room and put on his nice chinos, the ones he wore when he needed to play Concerned Social Worker or Dedicated Teacher or Next Door Suburban Neighbor during interviews. Put on his favorite faded Stanford t-shirt. Pulled a bit across his chest and biceps. _Cardinal Red_ was a good color for him. Combined his hair back off his face with his fingers…just a little dab of gel.

\-----

Shopping was going to be impossible for a few days, but the larder was well-stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, dairy, baked goods, eggs, and meat from the last run up to the big grocery store in Kearney, Nebraska.

The Men of Letters back-up survival pantry consisted of canned and package goods. Eventually they would have to rely on hash and chili and dry pasta, an assortment of packaged raw grains, nuts, and beans, powered eggs and milk, and frozen orange juice. Bomb shelter basics protected by a spell that ensured nothing would go bad.

Could be worse. Dean had far less to work with on the road when they were growing up.

Sam entered the kitchen on slippered feet. Dean said _Yes._ Sam had been chasing that car for twenty years and caught it. So, after all this time, what would Dean want? What would Sam want? Now what?

Dean was wearing his favorite black jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo of a forgotten garage band. Was wrapped in a garish “Kiss-The-Cook” apron that Jody Mills had bought him as a gag Christmas gift years before. He bopped along to ZZ Top as he stood at the kitchen counter, beating up what looked like thick cake batter with a metal whisk in a large ceramic bowl. An array of cutlery, pans, and half-opened packages of comestibles were scattered across the counter top.

“Morning, sunshine,” said Dean.

He turned from his work and poured Sam a cup of coffee, laced it with milk from a small creamer–part of a silver tea set sitting on the side board–dropped in a raw sugar cube from Sam’s not-so-secret stash (apparently), and ceremoniously passed the cup, two-handed, to Sam.

The Winchester version of a morning kiss.

Dean's smile was blinding, and Sam smiled back, warming his hands around the oversized cup.

The older Hunter stepped back, still smiling, and motioned his brother to sit at the kitchen table. He had set a place with the blue stoneware, two cut crystal glasses for juice and water, and a cream-colored, coarse weave, linen napkin. More bounty from the Men of Letters Legacy of Good Taste.

There was a silver bowl of cut up fresh and canned fruit, a plate of what turned out to be plain white toast kept warm under one of the napkins, sides of butter and sour cherry jam in their own silver serving dishes, a small glass pitcher of maple syrup, a silver sugar bowl filled with chopped pecans and hazelnuts, and an empty stoneware soup bowl.

Sam sat, shook out the napkin and placed it on his lap. Dean sidled up to him like a well-trained waiter, a linen napkin over one arm, a small saucepan from the stove in one hand, and a ladle in the other. The pot was filled with what turned out to be cooked steel-cut oats. Dean scooped a serving into the empty bowl, stuck the ladle in the pan, and moved the maple syrup closer to the bowl.

And bowed deferentially. Sam, former candidate for _Boy King of Hell,_ giggled.

Sam ate. Dean cooked. The batter was for quick bread, replete with crushed nuts and swirls of cinnamon sugar. On the stove was a cast iron Dutch oven where sliced apples were cooking down to sugary goodness, to be poured over a short stack of pancakes. And damned if the Sword of Michael wasn’t grating cheese for a muffin pan filled with miniature bacon quiches.

Sam ate. Dean cooked. And waited on Sam. And swayed his hips, dancing to Baby’s favorite tunes.

Endless cups of good coffee. Tall glasses of cold orange juice, embellished with fresh strawberry slices. A litany of hot and cold treats, timed perfectly, so Sam could catch his breath between courses.

Sam ate. Dean cooked. Not a word was spoken. Just smiles that made the muscles in Sam’s face ache, and, if it were possible, carved his dimples deeper.

Dean glowed, sweating slightly as he washed up, stuck the rinsed dishes and pans into the oversized drainer, and then wiped the counters clean. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook next to the sink. And turned to stare at Sam.

Sam wiped his mouth with his linen napkin and folded it next to the last, empty plate, which had held a couple of slices of that quick bread smeared with the last of the butter. Just crumbs, now, and a shiny pool of grease.

Sam pushed back from the kitchen table, looked up at Dean, and reached for him. Dean took his brother's hand, pulled him down the hall past his room to Sam’s room.

Dean turned around and faced Sam and leaned up to kiss him chastely on the cheek.

“Now that we are formally boyfriends, you should know…don’t expect me to put out on the first date. I have standards.”

Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Pulled his grinning brother close into a tight hug and brushed his lips over his forehead. Felt Dean relax into his arms.

“So, how long do I have to wait?” Tried to sound snippy. Failed. Smiling too hard.

Dean’s head rested in the crook of Sam’s neck.

“Hmmmm, let’s see. Don’t want to seem too eager. Don’t want to assume. Want to get to know you better. See you dressed up. Pretty. Wine and dine you. Show you off. Hold your hand in public. Brush your girly hair. Make it a threesome with Baby once the roads are cleared. Find another acre of empty where we can lay across her windshield and count the stars. Set another field ablaze with fireworks. Skinny dip in a motel pool and almost get caught. Argue about movie candy. All the stuff we used to do.”

Dean stammered the last sentence out, which was enough to turn on Sam’s tears.

Sam wanted permission to touch. Not to be thinking every moment when Dean was in reach and need that he had to hide behind an invisible wall, hold his breath.

Sam realized that this is what he wanted: comfort and romance. And it seemed as if, for the first time in 20 years, the boys were on the same page.

Dean had said _Yes._ And Sam held him closer.

Sam whispered in Dean’s ear.

“I had a nice time, Dean,” said Sam, as if talking to some guy who he had met at a school dance in high school or at the library at Stanford.

So many years wasted.

“How about a movie date? Doing anything tonight? Say, around 7 pm? Homemade pizza and snacks? My treat?”

Dean pretended to ponder. Stepped out of Sam’s arms. Frowned.

“Well, I'm pretty popular, you know. Will have to check my calendar, move some meetings around. But yeah, think I can make it.”

“That’s great, Dean. I’ll text you the address.”

Pause.

“Don’t want to push, but will this count as our second date? And, maybe, with a late supper, our third date? And, maybe, I can make you breakfast?”  
  
“I’ll bring my toothbrush,” said Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos appreciated.


End file.
